


Switch

by mugenmine



Series: NewSub!John Headspace [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Worship, Bondage, Caning, Developing Relationship, Gags, Kink Meme, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Paddling, Power Dynamics, Sub!John, sub!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-06 08:50:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mugenmine/pseuds/mugenmine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’ve been thinking,” Sherlock had said last night, as they lay beside each other in the dark. “I want to know what it feels like. What I do to you.”</p><p>John didn’t remember sleeping after that, only turning his back to Sherlock and holding himself still as the idea sparked and simmered inside of him until it burned like the sun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [youreyeonmyeye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/youreyeonmyeye/gifts).



> This is the fifth story in the [NewSub!John Headspace](http://archiveofourown.org/series/16177) Series. It reads as a standalone, but events from the third story [Bespoke](http://archiveofourown.org/works/448674/chapters/768511) are referenced.

John stared at his mobile. His thumb hovered over Sherlock’s name on his contact list and blocked out the letters. He scrolled past it a few times, sending his short list of connections blurring by, as he tried to figure out what his next move would be. Five minutes had passed since he’d arrived at the door marked 221B and found that he couldn’t step over the threshold. With the sound of the city at his back, he took in the black door with copper letters that marked his home. Sherlock existed inside somewhere, up the seventeen steps and in the warmth of their flat.

John turned his back to the door and watched the steady stream of people flowing past. He brushed his thumb across Sherlock’s name, not heavy enough to make contact and continue down the path they had started on last night.

He tried to picture where Sherlock would be right now, in the kitchen, or sprawled on the sofa, telly filling up the background with white noise. Waiting, perhaps. For him. John frowned, thinking the thought presumptuous. Sherlock’s mind would most likely be focused elsewhere, on something that held more questions and more angles to explore and pick apart. John didn’t know how many angles he consisted of, two maybe, three at most.

“I’ve been thinking,” Sherlock had said last night, as they lay beside each other in the dark. “I want to know what it feels like. What I do to you.”

John didn’t remember sleeping after that, only turning his back to Sherlock and holding himself still as the idea sparked and simmered inside of him until it burned like the sun.

Sherlock had blindsided him again in the early morning. John was on his way out the door, rushing and late for work, when Sherlock blocked his path and pushed a slip of paper into his hand.

“I need you to write down everything you plan to do to me,” Sherlock had said as John stood very still, his heart pounding all the way up to his ears. “All of it. I’ll need to know."

The melancholy start of Sibelius’s _Allegro Moderato_ drifted down from above, the slow melody muted through a pane of glass and the distance of a storey, and blended into the hum of the city around him. Sherlock picked up the piece in the middle of a phrase, somewhere on the second page. John knew the song like it was his own; he had memorised the melody from end to end over the days that Sherlock took to master it. He wondered if the song was an acknowledgement that he was out there, a musical equivalent of _I see you_.

He tapped Sherlock’s name and the number filled the screen. “Fuck.” John frowned at his mobile, neither ready nor certain as to how to continue a conversation that hadn’t been started. _These aren’t just words you want me to write down. You have no idea what you’re asking me._

The music stopped. John exhaled and focused on the sound of his mobile trying to connect. He hoped just this once he would be sent to voice mail. Sherlock picked up on the fifth ring.

“Just listen.” John stalled after that, suddenly out of words. He held the silence, trying to right himself, looking for a proper start. Sherlock’s slow breathing on the other end distracted him to the point of uselessness. His focus stolen away with thoughts of his hands on Sherlock’s skin, and all of the ways that a person could be bound.

“I’ve been thinking about this all fucking day. I understand why you need it all mapped out beforehand, but for me… this isn’t just like making a grocery list. It’s kind of baring my soul, putting down all the things I want to do to you.”

John leaned against the door and closed his eyes, not caring what he must look like, hoping that Sherlock would say something to help him carry this forward. He tapped out a nervous rhythm against his thigh. Sherlock stayed quiet on the other end.

“Are you there?” John asked.

“Yes, I’m listening.”

“Did you get all of that?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

“And, do you understand why I might find this… assignment… hard?”

John closed his eyes and turned Sherlock’s request over in his head one more time, trying to come at it from a different angle, from something other than _Describe all of the things that you want to do to my body._

“This is the only thing I’m asking of you.” Sherlock said.

“It’s fucking huge-”

“It doesn’t need to be.”

John held his tongue. This was nowhere near the only thing. Documenting his desires was just the beginning. After would come the scrutiny and assessment, picking everything apart, all of the changes, and if he survived that, he suspected he would just be presented with a guideline to reenact in the flesh.

“You have to promise me, Sherlock. You can’t be cruel about this.”

“I won’t be-”

“Sometimes you can’t help yourself, though.”

John waited for a response that never came.

“Are you there?” John asked.

“Would you still try?”

John lowered the phone. The question signalled the moment before Sherlock would back down. He knew the hesitation and the tone; he knew the sound of need all too well. And now Sherlock waited on his word.

“John?”

“No, it’s alright. I’ll do it…”

“Are you going to come inside now?” Sherlock asked.

“Not yet.”

* * *

In the corner of a Costa coffee shop, John built a barrier between himself and the rest of the room: too many napkins, an untouched muffin, a cup of coffee, long cooled. He positioned a copy of the _Times_ beside his notebook to show that he belonged there and would be staying a while. By closing time, when the weary baristas ushered him into the cool night, his clothes would reek of coffee and the tips of his fingers would be stained with ink, but hopefully he would be closer to having a plan.

He unfolded Sherlock’s crumpled note. The words _Clothes, Location, Gear, Actions_ , scribbled in Sherlock's hand. The simplicity of categories helped. If he thought of everything in terms of logistics and details, he could create a game plan. Hopefully he would be able to stop himself from spiralling down the thorny path of _I really don’t want you to know all of my fantasies about you_.

He closed the notebook when he began to count the lines on the page.

Fantasies did not constitute a scene. The things that knocked around his head at night consisted of nothing that Sherlock would want to do. The same themes played out again and again. Shoving Sherlock against the wall, or onto the kitchen table, or onto his bed, or the sofa, or into the shower. Location didn’t matter. Then shoving turned into kissing, usually after Sherlock’s startled cry, or gasp, or “John, what are you doing?” That line always got him going. By then he had Sherlock pinned and struggling, trying to reciprocate and kiss him back, needing to keep the contact. Then the clumsy and desperate shedding of clothes, buttons clattering on the table, or the desk, or the floor. Pants dragged down pale thighs, his name desperate on Sherlock’s lips, begging for it.

John looked up from the newspaper that he had been pretending to read. Not one word of the _It seems that I really want to fuck you_ composition would make it onto the page.

He tried again.

**_Clothes_ **  
**_Gear_**  
 **_Location_**  
 **_Actions_**

Lists seemed like a good way to start; he could do them fast, like word puzzles. If he could fill the page with words, then he could go back and shape them into bullet points or an outline. Sentences, he feared, would be difficult.

**_Clothes_ **

He scribbled _none_ , then blacked out the evidence until no trace of it remained.

John sat back. His pinning and ravaging fantasies focused on the removal of clothes; he’d never been too specific on what Sherlock had on in them. Details ranked second to the biting and the sex.

He could picture Sherlock’s face when he handed over the notebook. The raised eyebrow, the smirk. He added leather shorts to the list; they seemed reasonable, not too out there. He didn’t want to go home and demand that Sherlock strip for him. They would get to that. Maybe. Eventually.

**_Clothes: Leather shorts._ **

Leather boots came next. He couldn’t imagine Sherlock agreeing to wear them but they would fulfil a staggering list of fantasies if he did. Long legs bound to the knee in polished black leather boots, leather shorts riding low at the line of Sherlock’s hipbones. John filled in the details as they came to him.

**_Clothes: Leather shorts, black leather boots (twenty hole, steel-toed, Doc Martens?)_ **

He looked up from his list and caught the eye of a young woman at the table across from him. He returned her smile, unable to help the feeling that she had caught him in the act of something indecent. He nodded and stared back down at the page.

**_Gear_ **

He set the pen down.

He'd never needed much. Leather cuffs, secured behind his back. No room for give, no chance he could get away. Tight enough so that he could give in to his helplessness. He didn’t care what Sherlock forced into his mouth as long as it was in place by the time he became overwhelmed.

**_Gear: cuffs, arm binder, bit, clamps, cock ring, plug, rope. This is fucking ridiculous..._ **

He frowned at his results, each item a known entity, everything so uninspired. He added ball-gag and blindfold to the list to mix things up and pad out the page. Not that Sherlock would grade him on length. Hopefully not. He wrote down lube. He wanted to get the hell out of there.

**_Location: Not home._ **

**Apr 23, 2012, 7:35PM**  
I need a location. - JW

Expand. - SH

For the event. I don’t have a space. - JW

Requirements. - SH

Indoors, clean, quiet. Overnight stay? - JW

He waited for that detail to be noted or rejected. He should have texted _Available for suitable length of time_. He coloured in the rest of the blocks on the page and waited, too distracted to do much else. Twenty-five minutes later his mobile buzzed.

**Apr 23, 2012, 8:00PM**  
I’ve made arrangements. Saturday evening. - SH

Thank you – JW

He went back to work.

**_Actions: Sherlock..._ **

_What the hell am I going to do with you?_ He traced the words until they stood out dark and bold on the page. He couldn’t pretend anymore that Sherlock wouldn’t pick this apart, or that this wasn’t a confession. He gave himself ten minutes. At 8:30 he would get up and leave and be done with it.

He started with the words _You will_. Everything flowed after that.

He came up at 8:55. He flipped through the four pages he had managed to fill, barely recalling half of the things that he had put down. He scanned through the almost illegible scrawl of details and desires and requests that he never thought he could put outside of himself, and for a moment he felt lighter.

He tore out the pages and started again.


	2. Chapter 2

“You’ve removed pages from this.” Sherlock dragged his finger down the inside spine of the notebook, where the jagged edges remained. “Twelve. Why?”

They sat side by side on the edge of Sherlock’s bed. Shoulder brushing against shoulder, knees making contact as Sherlock sat forward and scanned the pages. The strange and slightly new frontier of Sherlock’s room pulled John's focus even further away from the task at hand.

He dangled on the sharp edge of the question. He'd expected it—the evidence of his self-censorship stood out in the open—but he still didn’t have an answer prepared.

“I made a lot of false starts.” John looked down at Sherlock’s knee, so close to his own. “It wasn’t exactly easy.”

He could count on one hand the number of times that he had spent time in Sherlock’s room. This might have been the longest so far. Previous trips had been to leave packages on the dresser, or to help Sherlock into bed after he had marooned himself in his exhaustion working at the kitchen table.

John catalogued the landmarks, as Sherlock’s attention remained fixed on the page. A silver lamp on the bedside table, a mounted sword above the dresser. The dressing cabinet in the corner was filled with disjointed things: pinned beetles under glass, a single rack of test tubes, a bust of someone he didn’t know. A battered steamer trunk sat in the corner, made of metal and wood and leather. The books in the bookshelf had been arranged by colour. It seemed as if Sherlock restricted his chaos to the world outside of his room.

John looked everywhere but at the notebook. Every word he had put down had been clumsy, and sterile, and so very safe. He watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eye and swallowed down the litany of disclaimers, and the urge to rip the notebook from Sherlock’s hands. To call it all a mistake, an error in judgement, just call it a day.

He dropped back and let the mattress catch his fall, Sherlock's bed much softer than his own. He could sleep soundly here, he thought, as he commandeered a pillow and tucked it under his head. The simple act felt forward; it implied that he belonged there. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice. John searched for something interesting about the ceiling to focus on. He tensed as Sherlock’s hand came to rest on his knee.

“You’re having a hard time with this.”

“How is that surprising?”

Sherlock pulled away and took the warmth with him. “You put a lot of thought into it.”

John didn’t know how to respond.

“The lettering is very precise.” Sherlock squinted at the page. “More than your usual handwriting, which shows both hesitation and-”

“Sherlock.”

“What?”

“You’re doing it.”

“Doing what?” Sherlock asked.

“The thing I asked you not to do.”

“I’m not being cruel… am I?

John shook his head. “No.”

Sherlock frowned and turned back to the start, and John propped himself up on his elbows and cringed inside as he watched Sherlock track down the list of gear and pause. Sherlock’s finger slowed and stopped and John strained to see if he had reached the part describing him wearing minimal leather.

“You don’t have to wear that- They’re more like suggestions, actually what you have on now could work.”

Trousers and a dress shirt wasn’t how he had envisioned Sherlock bound before him, but he had fumbled it out there and wasn’t going to backpedal.  

He hated his need to be so careful with his words. _Just get to the bloody point. No hesitation._ This is how I want you, he wanted to say. “I’ll just need to be able to see your body,” he said instead.

“I’ll find something appropriate,” Sherlock said.

“Is there anything in there that you’re not okay with?” John sat up once more. He rubbed Sherlock’s back and Sherlock stiffened at his touch. “I’ve put down what you've already done to me, mainly. But if there were places you didn’t want me to-” He pulled his hand away.

“No.” Sherlock closed the book. “It's fair. If you could handle all of this, it stands to reason that I will as well.”

John couldn’t suppress his laugh. “You've put me through a lot, you know. I can handle much more than you can imagine.”

“I can imagine quite a lot,” Sherlock said.

Minutes passed before either of them spoke again. He had opened something just then, crossed an unspoken line, and as Sherlock studied him, he knew Sherlock had picked up on it as well.

“Not everyone can just switch,” John said. ”It might not be in you.  I don’t want to make an assumption-”

“This was my idea. You seem to keep forgetting that.”

“I know, I’m just putting it out there.”

Sherlock set the notebook down and turned on him. John knew the look in Sherlock’s eye too well. Dark and verging on cruel, though cut with a slight smile which meant that Sherlock wanted to play now. John gave in as Sherlock shoved him down and straddled his thighs. He relaxed and let Sherlock pin his arms above his head, ready to be manoeuvred and hopefully molested.  He closed his eyes, exactly where he wanted to be.

“It’s in you though,” Sherlock said.

John had already lost the thread. He smiled instead, hoping it would suffice as a response. He dug his heels into the mattress and tipped his head back to offer up his mouth.

“You enjoy it, though.”

John drifted back down.

“Enjoy what?”

“Being controlled. When _I_ do it.”

He wouldn’t have used _enjoy_. The word didn’t fit. He enjoyed things like sleeping in, and action films, and dim sum. What Sherlock spoke of felt closer to raw need.

“That’s not really a question, is it?” John asked.

He lingered on the idea even as Sherlock leaned down and kissed him. He searched for the word that could give shape to his need. He wanted to be able to explain it. He never had before. Sherlock pulled away.

“This isn’t your usual style,” John said. He kept his wrists crossed above his head though Sherlock no longer held him in place. Sherlock's weight across his thighs was enough to keep him still. “Usually you don’t kiss me unless I’m tied to something.”

It was stretching the truth and he wondered if Sherlock would call him on it. Over the past month Sherlock had taken to kissing him. Random and frustrating kissing. Never when he expected, never when he had time to reciprocate. Sherlock kissed him as they exited taxis, or before they entered rooms full of people, and once Sherlock had ambushed him in a lift moments before the doors slid open onto the main floor of the Yard. Their mouths had met and he had been left floating and distracted for the rest of the day.

John reached forward and touched Sherlock’s hip. He hooked his fingers into the belt loop as a tether and waited. He levelled his gaze at Sherlock’s heart, because eye contact meant acknowledging the claim he staked, and even with something this slight, John never knew if Sherlock would allow it.

He touched the other hip, a bold and rare place for his fingers to land. Sherlock allowed the symmetry for a moment, then pulled away and climbed from the bed.

“I want to show you something.” Sherlock crossed the room, and John sat up and cursed himself, not sure if Sherlock had fled from him or had been swept away by a thought.

Sherlock knelt before the trunk and John watched with interest as Sherlock opened the heavy padlock. He’d never thought about where Sherlock kept all of his gear, that there would be a place for it. At the time, and under the influence of the clamps or the bit, they were instruments that Sherlock conjured from the ether to drive him out of his mind.

He stopped himself from crossing the room and peering over Sherlock’s shoulder to see all of the secrets held inside.

Sherlock dug through the depths. He pulled out boxes wrapped in white paper, MANJI in bold red letters stamped across their sides. The culmination of their ill spent night at Manji’s studio now finally at their door. John never imagined there would be so much.

“Is all of that for me?” John asked.

“Yes.” Sherlock pulled out a long straight cane and a wooden paddle, and then went about repacking the trunk. “I need to add a few things to your list.”

Whatever questions John had about moving too fast with Sherlock faded away. Just the sight of the cane, the pale wood and thick wooden handle brought a world of unknown and boundaries not yet crossed. He could feel the heat beneath his skin and the colour rising in his face, and he wished that for once, his body would stop betraying him.

“Sometime, soon perhaps, I plan to use these on your backside,” Sherlock said.

John pressed his palms against the bed, already starting to brace for the blow. He unclenched his jaw and exhaled.

Sherlock placed the cane in John’s hand and sat beside him on the bed. John held it from the centre. The cane was longer than he had expected: over three feet from handle to tip. The wood was smooth and heavy. He shifted his grip to the handle, surprised at the balance and density of the wood and how it gave when he tried to bend it. If wielded strongly enough, it would raise welts.

“What’s this made of?” John asked.

“Smoked rattan; the handle is Blackwood.”

“You plan to use this on me?”

“Carefully, yes.”

John ran his hand down the length of the cane, unsure if he would ever allow himself to be beaten. He’d have to resist, and fight, and be taken down and tied up before he got to a space where he might be ready. Maybe not even then. “I don’t know.”

“I want you to use these on me first.” Sherlock set his hand on John’s thigh. John didn’t tense this time, though a part of him wanted to get up and clear his head and return to all of this later. “I should know what they feel like, before I use them on you.”

“Did you read that somewhere?” He didn’t mean for it to come out sounding so incredulous. He couldn’t deny that Sherlock had been getting better at sorting out boundaries and etiquette since Tokyo, but he had the feeling that Sherlock still sought advice along the way.

Sherlock snatched the cane away. John countered, grabbing the paddle. _Yeah, you probably did._

Rows of black kanji covered the surface, stained into the wood. John flipped the paddle over, not knowing where to start or what the symbols meant. He rubbed the cool wood against his palm and looked to Sherlock.

“Heart Sutra.” Sherlock turned the paddle over once more and pointed to the kanji at the top right corner. “Starts there. _Form is emptiness, and the very emptiness is form._ There's more to it than that.”

“Manji?” John asked.

“He did it from memory.”

John didn’t know which he would choose if Sherlock set the cane and the paddle before him and demanded a decision. The cane would be heavy and shocking and like fire across his skin, the pain layering and becoming almost one thing as it came down again and again.

The paddle would still sting, but the blow would go deep if Sherlock wielded the wood strongly enough. The shock would go into him, through him. He rapped the paddle against his knuckles and handed it back to Sherlock.

“Will you be able to do this?” Sherlock asked.

“What do you mean?”

“When I look at you I think you’d rather be the one on the receiving end of all of this.”

“And when I look at you, I see a control freak who doesn't want to be controlled at all. You're going to fight me to the bitter fucking end, aren't you.”

Sherlock thought about that for a while, and then nodded.

“Most likely.”


	3. Chapter 3

On Saturday John realised that he still didn’t know where the scene would take place. He'd meant to ask before, then pushed it aside, wanting to keep some part of the night a mystery. If everything else was to be fixed and scripted, something had to remain unknown.

They would leave at 7:30PM and return the next morning. The two pages of detailed manoeuvring he'd wound up with wouldn’t take the entire night. He had yet to figure out what would happen once all the gear had been removed and packed away. He had nothing. Hopes perhaps, nothing more.

They had attempted to reenact a typical Saturday morning, but ended up skirting each other, sharing the living room with barely a word between them. John had read the same paragraph in the paper over and over again, while Sherlock seemed focused on the various books he’d carried from his bedroom and piled on the table like a wall between them. They separated after that.

John stood in the middle of his room, adrift in the space between his bed and the wardrobe, lost in things that hadn’t happened yet. Things that might not happen at all.

 _Arm binder, then the ball-gag, then the blindfold_. John closed his eyes and ran through the script. Sherlock would kneel, then clover clamps, and the plug, and if they made it past that point, he would use the paddle and the cane. The sheer amount of gear felt like overkill. Sherlock would be lost in leather. He’d have to remove the binder before the paddle. According to the instructions Sherlock would be on all fours by then.

He made the adjustments in his head and played the scene out again. Everything was mapped out and certain, except for Sherlock, the only variable in the mix.

He opened his eyes. Sherlock stood in the doorway, still in pyjamas, looking like he was in for the day.

“Is everything alright?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded.

“I had a few thoughts,” Sherlock said. “About what you should wear tonight.”

Sherlock opened the wardrobe and began pulling out clothes, holding up dress shirts, frowning at some, picking through the small selection until he pulled out a tailored white shirt. John had bought it for a wedding a few months ago and had only worn it a handful of times. It was the most expensive shirt he owned. Sherlock tossed it onto the bed.

“This.”

Sherlock pulled out the only black suit John owned and sighed. He handed the suit to John. “And this.” He picked a blood red tie off the rack and draped it over John’s shoulder.

“Perfect. Please wear all of this tonight."

Sherlock turned to leave.

“Why?" John asked.

“You have a role in mind for me and the clothes you chose are a part of that. You, in a suit, there’s a formality that I- like. It’s how I want to see you. Will it be a problem?”

John shook his head.

“Good. The car’s coming in an hour.”

“You’d best get dressed as well.” John laid the suit on the bed and arranged the pieces. He positioned the tie down the centre, atop the white shirt and found a belt and shoes that would suit. Sherlock watched him.

“I expect you to be waiting for me when I come downstairs,” John said.

Sherlock nodded and started to leave. John caught him by the wrist.

“I expect you to be waiting on your knees.”

 

* * *

 

John dug his dog tags from beneath a pile of T-shirts, tucked away in the back of a drawer. Kept safe for so long in a small cardboard box, moved from his bedsit to 221B.

The metal came to rest against his sternum and felt at home against his skin. He hadn’t felt their weight since he'd left Afghanistan. They marked the essential parts of him: his name, given and in numbers, and what flowed through his veins.

He combed his hair and centred his tie, and straightened the line of his collar, the cotton stiff against the back of his neck.

This was how Sherlock wanted him, how Sherlock imagined him. Formal and authoritative. Staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he couldn’t help but feel embarrassed that his vision of Sherlock involved very little clothing at all. He hadn't thought of it as a role for Sherlock to fill, he had just wanted to see him half-naked.

His own body was no longer a mystery. Sherlock had gone over every inch of him, witnessed him in all states of indignity and ecstasy and desperation. There was really nothing more to see.

The moths inside him had returned, waking up from their slumber in the pit of his stomach and making him pause and doubt. The soft wings had stirred the moment he laid down his first command. _On your knees._ He said it again. He tested and raised the tone, shifted the force and the emphasis then wondered if he should have said them at all. _At ease_ had rolled off his tongue when protocol and orders had been a part of his life. _On your knees_ did not.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock stood by the window, staring down at the street below, already in his coat and looking like he wanted to leave.

John focused on the black duffel bag by the door, double-checking that everything he needed was still in place. He had kept to the medical side: latex gloves, blunt-nosed shears, analgesic cream, cold pack, bottled water. Sherlock had packed the gear.

“Did you not hear me upstairs?” John asked.

“I heard you,” Sherlock said. “I decided to wait, though. The scenario you drafted doesn’t start until after we get there.”

“So... you’re not open to any spontaneity?”

Sherlock held up John’s coat in lieu of an answer.

“Are you just going to stand there with it or are you going to give that to me?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. He gestured for John to come closer.

John sighed and relented and let Sherlock help him into his coat. He held still as Sherlock ran his hands across his shoulders and adjusted the collar of his coat, then began working inward, straightening John’s tie and smoothing the lapels of his suit jacket.

John allowed Sherlock his rituals; he didn’t mind this one. He closed his eyes, and let Sherlock focus on him.

“I think it would be best if we stuck to the script,” Sherlock said.

“The script.” John looked down at Sherlock’s hands, still adjusting the buttons of his coat. He wanted to tear out the pages and redraft the whole thing. “We should probably talk about that—”

“You look very nice,” Sherlock said.

John paused, taken aback by the sudden pivot.

"Thank you. And...so do you.”

The rare presence of a black tie with Sherlock’s suit made it seem as if they were headed out for a night on the town. John paused, noticing the outline of the high boots beneath Sherlock’s black trousers, ending just below the knee.

“Are those?”

“Doc Martens.”

John glanced up further, wondering about the other half of his request.

“John.”

John looked up at Sherlock’s smile, face burning, so blatantly caught in the act.

“The taxi is here.”

 

* * *

 

John had assumed their journey would take them through Belgravia until the taxi passed beneath an arch and onto a private road. The surface under the car tyres changed from smooth tarmac to undulating cobbles.

They came to a stop at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac in front of a three-storey mews house. Number 34. The last of the day’s light reflecting from the gable windows. Flower boxes lined the balconies, sending tendrils of ivy tumbling down the façade.

John stared at his dress shoes, dark against the grey cobblestones. He shifted his weight back and forth and buried his hands in his coat pockets, marvelling at how still London had become. He had always wondered what it would be like to live in a place like this. Sherlock pulled a key ring from his coat pocket and opened the door.

“Is this Kazuo’s house?” John squinted at the nameplate, Sakurai, engraved in the silver. He looked down the street one last time before he crossed the threshold.

“His London one,” Sherlock said as he brushed past and started up the stairs.

John slowed, wanting to explore and get his bearings. He stood in the foyer, careful not to touch anything, unable to shake the feeling that he was breaking and entering. He peered into the reception area, the space dotted with modern furniture and minimalist art. It didn’t seem like the house had been lived in. Either that or Kazuo was fond of order and anti-furniture.

He made a quick stop in the kitchen to drop off everything that needed to stay cold, then searched for Sherlock. His heavy footsteps echoed through the space. He found Sherlock on the first floor, leaning against the doorway of a darkening bedroom. Sherlock switched on the light.

Pale curtains covered the long windows and muted the light from the street lamps outside. A low platform bed and a wooden bench at its foot were the only furniture in the room.

“So where is Kazuo?” John asked.

“Dubai. Until the end of the week.”

John dropped the bag on the bench and went to the window. He peered at the houses across the way, checking to see if anyone stared back.

“And he’s alright with us- just using his space?”

Sherlock nodded.

“He was more than happy to help us out. When we leave it will be cleaned and like we were never here.”

“You told him what we were up to?”

“John, this is an indoor, quiet, clean space for an overnight stay. Those were your requirements.”

John sighed, not wanting to think about how much Kazuo did or didn’t know. He opened a side door expecting to find the bathroom and discovered a dressing room instead. The bathroom stood at the far end, past the empty wardrobe rails and shelves. He hung up their coats, paused in the dark and tried to focus on the fact that he was here now, with Sherlock, and soon they would start.

“No, this is good,” John said and walked back into the light.

Sherlock remained in the doorway, holding the duffel once more. “Kazuo has a better space in the attic. We should use that.”

“Why? Did he say we had to?” John asked.

Sherlock didn’t answer. He looked to the door, and shifted the bag to his other hand.

“I want to start here.” John sat on the bed and made a quiet stand. “We have all night, I’m sure we’ll get there.”

Sherlock frowned and looked like he would protest, but then he exhaled and set the bag on the bed. He emptied the contents, and lined up the gear along the bench by function, starting with the bit and ending with the Dragon cane. John watched Sherlock work through his silent exercise.

“Are you finished?” John asked as Sherlock made adjustments to the order, swapping the bit with the ball-gag, then the arm binder with the leather cuffs. Sherlock nodded and after a few more moves, put the empty bag by the door.

Sherlock picked up the arm binder and placed it on John’s lap. He knelt by the side of the bed.

“What are you doing?”

Sherlock sat back on his heels and rested his hands on his thighs. “Waiting for you to undress me.” He raised his chin and closed his eyes. “Then the arm binder, and the ball-gag and the blindfold.”

John pushed the binder aside.

“Did you memorise it word for word? All of it? Everything I put in that bloody notebook?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said. "All you have to do is take control and begin.” He moved his arms behind his back. “I’ve knelt. Now it’s your turn.”

John dropped to his knees before Sherlock. He mirrored him, sitting on his heels, hands clasped behind his back.

“No, I didn’t mean for you-”

“I don’t really get why you're doing this.” John said.

“I want to understand-”

“You keep saying that, over and over, but all you’re doing right now is clinging to your control.”

Sherlock looked away.

“When I’m with you...” John leaned close and took Sherlock by the chin and guided him back. “Look at me, Sherlock. When I’m with you, I get off on letting go. Waiting to see what you’ll do to me. Not knowing what will happen. And when I spin out of control, I know you have me. I mean you’ve almost dropped me on my head a couple of times, but we’re getting better at that.”

“I know the entire scene, all of it.” Sherlock pushed John’s hand away. “If I know everything you’re going to do, then I can be in the moment because I already know the moment. I kneel, you undress me, then the binder, the gag, the blindfold-”

“I think we should switch,” John said.

Sherlock stopped.

“I get it. I understand that you need to know everything to let go, and I don’t want to make you do anything that you’re not comfortable with. But I want to change everything I wrote down. I want to make you guess, I want to drive you out of your head and push you like you push me. But if you’re prepared only for what we mapped out then-"

“No,” Sherlock said, and for the first time that night, Sherlock seemed to slow down and look at John as if he was the only thing that existed. “I trust you.”

It was John’s turn to stop. He hadn’t expected that.

"I want you to do this."

“Are you sure?”

Sherlock scowled at him. "Do I have to say it again?"

“And do you think I’m capable of distracting you?” John asked.

Sherlock looked down. “You distract me… all the time."

John stood and pulled Sherlock to his feet. He backed Sherlock into the centre of the space, then let go.

“Nothing memorised, or preplanned, just let me try to find ways to distract you. And if I can’t, then we stop. If you’re not into it, we stop.”

Sherlock nodded once. He stared at John with such intensity that for a moment John wished Sherlock had been the one to take control. He struggled to hold Sherlock's gaze.

“You have to say it. They’re your rules, Sherlock. Will you give yourself to me?

“Yes.”

“Good,” John said. “Then I'll have you.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

“How am I supposed to be now?” Sherlock asked. He stood in the centre of the room and squared his shoulders and raised his chin. His pale eyes sharp and fixed.

“What do you mean?”

“Has my role changed? What’s my persona?” Sherlock crossed his wrists behind his back and looked at the floor. “Should I be obedient?”

“You can be however you like. I was only expecting you. Is that going to be a problem?”  

Sherlock stopped and stayed silent before he shook his head. “No, I can do that as well.”

A car engine revved from the street below and Sherlock turned towards the sound, his attention drifting away from John’s hold. John put on a calm face and turned over the curious problem of how to pull Sherlock away from everything that would seek to distract him tonight.

“Pay attention.” John snapped his fingers and brought Sherlock back. He stepped closer. “I want your focus here, on me.”

John held onto the moment as long as he could, watching the tiny changes ripple to the surface of Sherlock’s skin. The flash of a frown, the subtle shift forward, the words that seemed to want to push into the silence. The stare came next and John bore the weight of Sherlock’s undivided attention. And after minutes passed and Sherlock narrowed his eyes and his fingers began to twitch and his patience seemed almost at its end, John smiled.

“John-”

“No,” John said, barely above a whisper. “Stop talking.”

The gentle command pushed through the tightness in John's chest that always manifested with beginnings. The quiet force in his own voice surprised him.

The words made Sherlock stop, and the look in his eye shifted from challenge to interest. He closed his mouth.

John slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and stepped into Sherlock’s space. He stood close enough that he had to look up to hold Sherlock’s stare, close enough so that if he leaned forward their bodies would touch. “Take off your clothes. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

He braced himself, ready for a refusal, not sure what he would do if Sherlock decided to push back. He stayed rooted to his spot, and waited.

Sherlock stretched his fingers wide and took a step back. He fixed his stare past John and stopped. John counted silently, if he got to fifty and Sherlock refused to start, he would have to say something. _Are you still with me?_

Sherlock exhaled and loosened his tie and shrugged out of his suit jacket.

“Slow down,” John said, and Sherlock froze and looked at him. “This isn’t a race.”

He pulled Sherlock’s jacket back on, and fixed his tie. He kissed Sherlock on the side of his mouth before he stepped back and assessed his work.

“Try it again.”

Sherlock began once more. He started to tug at his tie then changed tactics and took apart the knot. He eased his jacket from his shoulders and folded it over his arm. He looked to John as if for a cue.

"Perfect," John said.

“What should I—”

“Leave everything on the bed.”

Sherlock looked down as he unbuttoned his shirt, then white cotton gave way to porcelain skin, and the shirt joined the pile on the edge of the bed.

“That’s good,” John said. “Now come here.”

He took Sherlock by the wrist and drew him close. Watching Sherlock remove his clothes had emboldened him, and he touched Sherlock now because he could. John smoothed his fingers down Sherlock’s arms, savouring the lean muscle, the soft pale hair on his forearms, the taper and curve of the bones of his wrists. He guided Sherlock’s hands aside and unbuckled the belt, and pulled it from around Sherlock’s waist.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

With a little more force, he could pull Sherlock onto the bed. He could climb on top of him, pin him with his body. John stared at the line of Sherlock’s collarbone and the slow rise and fall of his chest, so very tempted. He touched Sherlock’s stomach, and the muscles tightened beneath his palm.

This wasn’t the version of Sherlock that he conjured up when he lay alone in his bed and got himself off, the one that begged for his mouth and wanted to be shoved against the wall. This was the one he lived with, the one who took him down and took him apart, the one that pulled away from his touch. He had to be careful not to forget that.

John stepped back. “You can continue.”

Sherlock folded his trousers and laid them on the bed, as John tried to comprehend how words on a page had made Sherlock standing before him in black boxer briefs and steel-toed boots a reality. The boots didn’t go up as high as John had imagined, and Sherlock’s suitable choice had not been leather shorts, but this was still far more than he had expected. Sherlock glanced at him, hooking his fingers into the waistband of his briefs.

John stared, distracted by hipbones and abdominal muscles, and the Calvin Klein printed along the waistband.

“Not yet. Up on the bed.” He tried to speak as Sherlock would. Direct, matter of fact, not concerned with how brazen the demand. “I want you to kneel there. That’s where I’m going to keep you.”

If Sherlock had said those words to him, his face would be flushed and his cock hard and he wouldn’t be able to look Sherlock in the eye. But coming out of his mouth they sounded forced and insincere. He couldn’t understand why Sherlock continued to follow his lead.

Sherlock crawled to the centre of the bed and sat back on the heels of his boots, digging his fingers into the pale grey sheets. He didn’t break his stare as he positioned himself, shifting his shoulder blades back and down, lifting his chin. He looked more proud than subservient.

John couldn’t tell if the room was growing hotter or if he was slowly combusting from the inside. Formal and authoritative did not mean sweating to death in his suit. Sherlock, stripped down on the bed, seemed to be in a preferable state. He removed his suit jacket.

“Wait,” Sherlock said.

John stopped, his hand on the knot of his tie.

“I should do that for you.”

“Oh.” John held out his wrists and Sherlock rolled the sleeves up past his elbows as the idea that there could be give and take in this quietly floored him. He had never thought of anything more than just enduring what was given. He had never considered there could be more, but now it seemed so obvious.

Sherlock seemed determined to get the folds perfect and the lines straight and John lost himself in watching Sherlock's hands as he worked. When Sherlock reached for his tie John caught him by the wrist and pressed his lips against Sherlock’s fingers, expecting resistance that never came.

John picked up the cuffs, he knew these, he’d worn them before. Thick leather to be buckled tight, the D rings already padlocked together. The binder could wait for another time, when multiple straps and laces and buckles would prove less daunting. Cuffs were simple, and he didn’t want to look a fool.

“Turn your back to me.”

Sherlock hesitated, his attention still on the thick leather cuffs, then he moved, without protest. He made the adjustments, kneeling up straight, bringing his hands behind his back, and settling into his perfect form as if it were a requirement for the role. John expected that with each shift in position, Sherlock would have to re-adjust his body before he could start again.

John placed the cuffs into Sherlock’s hands.

“What am I supposed to do with these?” Sherlock asked. He ran his fingers along the edge, stopping when he found the buckle.

John leaned in close, his mouth brushed against Sherlock’s ear.

“I’m going to give you thirty seconds to get those on your wrists.”

“That’s not even a challenge,” Sherlock said.

John held Sherlock by the shoulders, and started at the nape of his neck. He followed the path of Sherlock's spine with his lips and tongue, marking each vertebra as his own until he pressed a kiss between Sherlock’s shoulder blades.

The cuffs fell from Sherlock’s hands and he wrapped his arms around himself and bowed his head. John eased him forward and made slow progress down the length of Sherlock’s spine.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked.

John closed his eyes and wondered if he opened them again if he’d find himself in his bed, awakening in the dark.

“I think that’s probably more than time,” John whispered. He picked up the cuffs and locked Sherlock’s wrists behind his back.

“You never said we had started.” Sherlock pulled on the cuffs, biceps tensing as he twisted his wrists and searched for the buckle. “They could be tighter.”

John kissed the nape of Sherlock’s neck once more. “And when have you ever played fair with me?” He buried his hand in Sherlock’s hair and mussed up the dark curls. “Are you ready, because I’m going to set some rules for you now.”

He slid his hand over Sherlock’s mouth. “There are only two words I want you to say tonight.”

Sherlock’s muffled protest pushed hot against John’s fingers.

“No commentary, no suggestions. I ask you a direct question and you answer yes or no. Do you understand?”

He pulled his hand away.

Sherlock hesitated, the colour rising in his face. “Yes.”

“Just like that,” John said, he rested his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock stared at John out of the corner of his eye. “And if the question isn’t a direct one?”

John tried not to smile. “I think I might have to help you with this.”

He released Sherlock from his embrace and sat him on the edge of the bed. Sherlock tapped his foot on the carpet.

“Stay there,” John said. "And stop that."

Sherlock frowned and stilled his boot.

John picked up the bit from the line of gear. He hesitated, not sure how Sherlock would take to being silenced. If Sherlock’s heart would race and his stomach would tighten as his always did, or if Sherlock would lock his jaw and pull away.

“You’ll expect me to choose now," Sherlock said. "The ball-gag or the bit." He dropped back onto the bed, trapping his arms beneath his body. He arched his back as he struggled with the cuffs.

“No, I've picked the one I want for you. I won’t force it, but- I want you to do this.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked.

John searched for an answer that wasn’t part of the rambling list in head. _I want to see you vulnerable. I want to watch you get frustrated. I want you to be the one struggling to speak. I just want to touch you some more._

“I don’t plan to fight you,” Sherlock said. He sat back up again, still tugging on the cuffs. “I'm interested to see what you’re going to do to me.”

John moved Sherlock’s knees apart and stood in the space between.

He raised the bit to Sherlock’s lips and waited until Sherlock relaxed and opened for it. He held the bit in place and Sherlock shifted forward and took it between his teeth.

John reached to fasten the buckle and Sherlock balked then, his string of words twisted around the gag. Sherlock shook his head and pulled away.

John took a step back and lowered the bit. “Has anyone ever done this to you?”

Sherlock looked down, his focus still on the bit in John's hand.

“Never? With anyone?” John looked at the pile of gear on the bench. “You’ve never done this before?”

Sherlock returned to him then, he looked up and held John’s stare.

“Sherlock, that’s a direct question.”

“No.”

John opened his mouth and closed it again. He stared at Sherlock, not quite sure if what he had heard could be possible.

“I just, I just thought…” John stopped, because to continue would lead him back to, _I always thought you had lied when you said Ares never did this with you._ His heart weighed heavy in his chest, and he looked away, because Sherlock's past and who he might have loved before should never have mattered. "I'll be careful with you."

Sherlock leaned forward until his forehead came to rest against John’s chest. “You don’t have to be.”

John pushed his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, thankful that they could just stay, and be quiet and still for a while. He wasn't sure what to do next anymore.

“Can we use this?” Sherlock asked, his breath warm against John’s chest. The words shook John from his thoughts. Sherlock took the edge of John’s tie between his teeth.

John stared down at Sherlock locked onto the silk like a tether. “I suppose you'll have to let go of it first.”

He pulled off his tie and folded it in half and tied a thick knot in the centre. Although this was the gentlest of the choices, he didn’t want to make it too easy. He pushed the knot between Sherlock’s teeth and tied the gag tight.

John stepped back, already aroused by Sherlock's struggling against the restraints. The forced vulnerability seemed foreign on Sherlock, it didn’t sit right on his skin. Sherlock looked as though he had been stolen away, helpless and bound, and it stirred something predatory in John, wanting to be both the captor and the one who would save him.

I’m planning to keep you quiet until I want your mouth against mine.” He stared at Sherlock. “Do you understand?”

Sherlock closed his eyes, inhaling deep before he nodded.

“But I need to know that you’re going to be alright with all of this. And I'm not sure how else to do it..." John unbuttoned his shirt and removed his dog tags from around his neck. He pushed them into Sherlock’s hand and closed Sherlock’s fingers around the metal.

“If we get to a point, to any point where you want to stop. You drop those and we’re done.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“You can’t negotiate your way out of this. If you drop my tags, for _any_ reason, we’re done. So if you really don’t want me to stop, you’d best hold on to those for your life.”

Sherlock shifted his grip and the rustling of metal against metal dampened in his fist.

John held back the second question, the _did you realise that I just demanded your mouth_ question, because the dog tags remained silent in Sherlock’s hand.

John pulled a black scarf from the gear. “Close your eyes.”

Sherlock pulled away, baring his teeth as he bit down on the gag, not ready to comply. John stopped and waited, as Sherlock always had for him. And when Sherlock calmed and closed his eyes, John began.

John laid the scarf across Sherlock’s eyes turning Sherlock's face into slashes of colour, black and scarlet stretched across skin. John wondered if inside Sherlock’s mind, he was calm and waiting, or a whirlwind of thought.

John helped Sherlock climb onto the bed. Sherlock crawled slowly to the centre, compensating for the unsteady surface and his bound arms and lack of sight. He sat back on his heels and went through the process of settling and composing himself once more.

John joined Sherlock, bringing additional means to keep him fixed in place. He bound Sherlock’s upper arms together with his belt, easing Sherlock’s shoulders back until his elbows almost touched and his chest was forced forward and exposed. He checked his work, making sure nothing bit into skin. John waited for Sherlock to adjust to his new centre of gravity, and find his balance with his arms pulled so tightly behind his back. When Sherlock finally settled, John bound Sherlock’s ankles together and secured them to his wrists, trapping Sherlock on his knees.

John snapped his fingers and Sherlock turned his head toward the noise and grew still. A soft frustrated sound escaped from his mouth, and he spread his knees apart to keep his balance. He leaned further back, his fingers searching the belt around his ankles.

John never imagined there would be a time when Sherlock would allow himself to be so vulnerable. After so many months of having his hands eased away each time he dared to explore Sherlock’s body, he didn’t know where to begin. The soft skin of the inner thigh, the narrow spaces between the ribs, the small of the back, the lines of the collarbones. John wanted all of these things, he wanted to be selfish and claim every untouched part of Sherlock as his own.

He started at the inside of Sherlock's knee, caressing the smooth skin of his inner thigh. Sherlock pulled his knees together and sent himself pitching onto his side. John caught him before he hit the mattress.

“If you don’t keep them apart,” John said, pulling Sherlock up and easing his knees open once more, “you’re just going to fall over again. If you want me to stop, drop the tags, and we stop.” He checked once more, the silver chain still trailed from Sherlock’s tight fist.

He tried higher this time, touching Sherlock’s hip, a place he’d been wanting to try all night. Sherlock flinched once more, his gasp filtered through the gag. John jerked his hand away as if he had been burned.

“Christ. Are you sure you want to do this?”

He waited until Sherlock nodded.

John couldn’t tell who seemed more skittish. He had known things wouldn’t be perfect, but he never expected that they would be afraid to move past the contact of fingertips.

He sat back and watched Sherlock balance in this awkward position, compensating for imposed angles and his limitation of movement. Soon the discomfort would shift into ache, then needles as Sherlock’s legs began to numb, then the muscles in his back would cramp from the forced arch, and the belt would begin to dig against his biceps as he strained, and he would bruise from it.

He had positioned Sherlock perfectly for the clamps and the cock ring, for the plug if he wanted to be cruel. But he didn’t.

“I’ve been thinking,” John said, and began to take everything apart. He steadied Sherlock as he loosened the belts, working quietly as Sherlock turned his blind eyes toward him. He unlocked Sherlock’s wrists from behind his back and re-secured them in front.

“I want to try something else with you.”

Sherlock reached for his blindfold and John caught his hands and guided them back down.

He laid Sherlock onto his back on the bed. Sherlock reached up and found the wall above his head. He stretched himself out and passed the id tags from one hand to the next and shook out his fingers that had been held so tight for so long.

John was thankful that Sherlock couldn’t see him. He didn’t want the scrutiny as he second guessed himself and tried to figure out what he would do next. This scene had changed so many times since the initial spark, and now it just seemed like the random actions of someone helplessly enamoured.

John settled next to Sherlock and frowned as he thought of all of the hoops they had jumped through to get here, just to end up once again, in bed at each other’s sides. He held his hand above Sherlock’s chest, not quite touching, letting the heat from his palm settle first.

“I’m going to touch…” He didn’t know if he needed to talk Sherlock through this. He pressed his hand against Sherlock’s heart, and felt the heartbeat racing beneath the skin.

“The body betrays even you,” John said, and Sherlock voiced a quiet protest, and the furrow in his brow grew visible beneath the blindfold.

He trapped Sherlock’s nipple between his fingers, and the pink skin flushed and grew hard as Sherlock's body responded to the touch. He replaced his fingers with his teeth and tongue, trying to coax desperate sounds from Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock grabbed blindly, his fingers finding their way into John’s hair. John caught Sherlock by his wrists and pinned them to the pillows. He gripped the lock between the cuffs with one hand as he searched the bed frame for something to anchor Sherlock to. He smiled when he found the metal rings bolted to the wood.

“Kazuo doesn’t mess around, does he?” John used his belt to lock Sherlock’s cuffs to the loop. Sherlock twisted beneath him.

John climbed on top as Sherlock continued to struggle. He straddled Sherlock’s thighs, pinning him to the bed. His question of, _Can I do this?_ answered by Sherlock’s hand still wrapped tight around the dog tags.

He closed his mouth onto Sherlock’s nipple, and Sherlock gasped and grew quiet. He teased him with his mouth and fingers, biting and tugging gently, feeling Sherlock start to grow hard beneath him.

John pulled back and took Sherlock in, growing bolder now by the sounds Sherlock tried to keep quiet, by the way Sherlock turned his face into his arm and his breath quickened, each time John’s mouth touched his skin.

John moved down the length of Sherlock’s body, rougher now, digging his fingers into Sherlock’s back, pulling him close, kissing him down to his navel, breathing him in. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of Sherlock’s pants.

“Will you let me?”

Sherlock raised his hips in response and John pulled them down to his knees, laying him out bare and aroused. Sherlock's face flushed between the black of the blindfold and the crimson of the gag.

John stopped, cursing as he retrieved the lube from the rest of the gear. He’d long given up on the idea of this night being perfect. He hoped that after everything was said and done, Sherlock would only remember the parts that did go well, not the dozens of missteps that had made up the night so far.

He lay beside Sherlock once more, wanting just to look down the length of Sherlock's body as he took him in his hand. He kissed Sherlock’s neck as he quickened the rhythm of his strokes, glancing down to watch Sherlock dig his heels into the bed. Sherlock's deep breaths punctuated by soft gasps, each time John traced his thumb across the tip of Sherlock's cock. A soft plea pushed through the silk, John stroked him harder.

John pulled at the gag, fingers searching for the knot, wanting Sherlock’s mouth to be against his own when he came. But Sherlock hovered too close to the edge, so worked up and overwhelmed that John couldn't bear to deny him. As he wrestled the gag free, Sherlock arched his back and shuddered through his orgasm, John’s name, laced with desire, spilling from his lips.


	5. Chapter 5

“You never seem to get tired of touching me,” Sherlock said.

John looked up, surprised that Sherlock had been the one to break the silence. John had drifted away for a while, immersed in the task of taking a damp flannel to Sherlock’s skin, wiping away the traces of orgasm from Sherlock’s cock and stomach and the dark hair below. He’d lost focus after he finished his initial task, and now dragged the warm cloth down Sherlock’s thighs and across his knees, finding his way to Sherlock’s calves, lingering on the leather boots.

“Because you never let me,” John said. He pulled Sherlock’s pants back up to his hips.

“It would be simpler if you just removed them altogether,” Sherlock said, then he stopped and smiled. “Ah, I understand…”

John pulled the blindfold from Sherlock’s eyes.

“What?”

Sherlock's slight smile still lingered.

“You enjoy pulling them down.”

John looked away. He buttoned his shirt, giving his hands something to do, his face burning at the truth.

Sherlock squinted up at the cuffs, he twisted his wrists and scraped at the buckle until his finger caught the edge.

“I don’t want you to hold back,” Sherlock said.

“I’m not,” John said, though the statement made him pause. He had ordered Sherlock to strip for him, touched him, kissed him, bound him, got him off. He might have been gentle, but he didn’t want to be any other way.

Sherlock rattled the dog tags. “You are making me hold these unnecessary things for a reason.”

 _Yes, for my sanity_ , John wanted to say.

“Alright,” John looked at the gear. He picked up the bit. “I’ll push.”

Sherlock didn’t take to the bit once it had been buckled in place. He shut his eyes and dug his teeth into the thick bar, and breathed deep and slow around the silicone.

“It’s not the best, is it?” John said.

Sherlock shook his head.

John unhooked Sherlock’s cuffs from the bed frame and hauled him onto his knees. Sherlock tipped his head back when the saliva began to trail from the corners of his mouth, his irritated growl muffled as he tried to swallow it back down. He seemed unable to settle into his perfect form, breaking it repeatedly as he stopped to wipe his chin.

“Leave it. Or do you want me to lock your wrists behind your back instead?”

Sherlock lowered his hands onto his lap. He kept his head tipped back, his body still. The only movement was the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest and the shift in his Adam's apple each time he attempted to swallow.

John snapped his fingers. Sherlock remained frozen, his focus locked on the ceiling.

“Which do you want to try first? The paddle or the cane?”

Sherlock looked at him out of the corner of his eye.

“I asked you a question.” John hooked his fingers into the O-rings at the sides of the bit and eased Sherlock’s chin down. He held Sherlock’s head in place. Sherlock closed his eyes.

“You can’t control it.” He let go of the bit and wiped Sherlock’s chin. "That’s the point.”

John kissed Sherlock gently in the centre of his furrowed brow and after a while Sherlock opened his eyes once more. He nodded when John picked up the paddle.

John pulled away and sat on the edge of the bed. He focused on the paddle, getting used to the weight of the wood in his hand. He dragged his nail over the kanji, where Sherlock had shown him the words. _Form is emptiness._ He couldn’t remember anything more than that.

Sherlock manoeuvred himself over John's lap, knocking John from his thoughts. Sherlock's cuffed wrists and the dog tags still gripped in his hand kept his movements slow and awkward. He grabbed a pillow and tucked it beneath his chest and laid down across John's lap. He crossed his ankles and closed his eyes.  

“Did you think I'd forgotten you?”

Sherlock shook his head.

John rubbed the small of Sherlock’s back, the gentle arch warm to the touch. He massaged the tight muscles with the heel of his hand, until Sherlock relaxed and sighed against the bit.

He found it hard to focus on what would come next, content with the chance to grow familiar with the feel of Sherlock’s body. He pulled at the waistband of Sherlock’s briefs, still surprised that Sherlock had walked into a shop and picked out something so tight and short and low for him. He tried not to think of being called out on his fetish as he pulled them down to Sherlock’s thighs.

He positioned the paddle, pressing the wood against the curve of Sherlock’s arse.

“Alright,” he whispered.

He brought the paddle down one time, to get the feel of it and the shock of the impact resonated through his palm. Sherlock tensed beneath him, then exhaled and stilled. And once John settled with the idea that he was going to hurt the body beneath him, he struck Sherlock again. He paused between each blow, waiting for Sherlock to receive the pain, and take it in, and breathe again. After the first six strikes, when the moans began to escape from Sherlock’s lips, John stopped.

He stretched his hand wide, his fingers sore from gripping the handle too tight and keeping his wrist too rigid as he worked to control the blows. He ran his hand across Sherlock's arse, the heat from his palm not as bright as the heat from Sherlock's skin. He waited until Sherlock nodded before he continued.

He counted six more, alternating from left to right, drawn to the way Sherlock twisted beneath him, and the colour that the wood left behind.

He lowered his strikes to the underside of Sherlock’s arse, as he developed a better sense of how to wield the paddle and grew used the small shocks that travelled into his hand. He stayed with the pattern of six, delivering a quick succession of hard smacks and when Sherlock gripped the sheets, he stopped. He rubbed Sherlock’s back, then moved down to Sherlock’s arse once more, giving him time. John bit his lip, knowing that Sherlock could feel his growing erection.

The more obvious fantasies filled his head, smart mouthed student bent over the knee. Sherlock more than fit the role. He drifted through disobedient servant, reluctant concubine, inexperienced rent boy, but he couldn’t conjure up the words that went along with the role play. He wasn’t meant to say those things.

“You’re doing well,” John whispered, not sure what else to say, waiting for Sherlock to catch his breath. “Do you want the bit out?” He tugged at the buckle and Sherlock shook his head and pressed his forehead against the sheets. John slid his hand between Sherlock’s legs.

He couldn’t help but be drawn to the beauty of this, the indignity of Sherlock over his lap, bare-arsed and squirming under his touch, moaning quietly into the bit.

He brought the paddle down again, three more times on each side, and Sherlock shook his head. And even though the dog tags stayed gripped in Sherlock’s hand, John stopped and set the paddle down.

He sat Sherlock on his lap and removed the bit. He kissed the side of Sherlock’s mouth.

John wondered if the punishment had humbled Sherlock, if only for a moment. Sherlock remained quiet and unreadable. John listened to Sherlock breathe, and stroked his hair. Sherlock relaxed and leaned into him.

As Sherlock sat on his lap, shifting only with his breath, John eased Sherlock’s pants down past his knees, tugging them as they caught on the top of the high leather boots, and freeing them from around Sherlock’s ankles. Sherlock dropped his head onto John’s shoulder and closed his eyes, and this alone felt more intimate than anything they had done tonight.

“Look at me,” John said.

Sherlock shook his head.

He took Sherlock’s cock in his hand, stroking until Sherlock grew hard again. With no belt to pull against, Sherlock seemed unsure what to do with his hands. He kept his arms folded against his chest as if to keep them out of the way and closed his eyes, his brow fixed in a beautiful frown.

“Sherlock, look at me.”

John stopped, and set his hand on Sherlock’s knee. Sherlock opened his eyes, his face flushed, eyes indignant.

“Keep going.” Sherlock stared at John, then down at his neglected cock. “Why did you stop?”

“Because you asked me to push,” John said. “You said Kazuo had a playroom…” He didn’t know if he had used the right word, but he didn’t know what else to call it. “I think it’s time we found it.”

 

* * *

 

The stairs opened up onto a long attic. Floor to ceiling windows lined the far wall and the light from the city illuminated the dark space and cast shadows across the hardwood floors. A wooden beam ran the length of the ceiling, lined with suspension rings and reinforced with metal. Small, neat bundles of rope lay in piles along a low shelf on the back wall.

John looked up at the rings, then at the rope and finally at Sherlock kneeling naked by his side, wrists cuffed behind his back once more.

“I’m telling you now, there’s no way I’m attempting any of that.” John dragged his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock squinted up at the ceiling.

“I thought there would be… I don’t know. More things in here,” John said.

A large black cushioned chair sat beneath the windows, its back to the city, positioned to watch all that went on in the room. Against the opposite wall a simple wooden chair sat in the shadows.

John set the cane on the wooden chair, then dragged Sherlock by the hair across the attic, smacking Sherlock’s reddened arse with the paddle when he faltered and failed to crawl fast enough. He had told Sherlock, “Not a word,” and Sherlock obeyed, keeping his mouth shut through the punishment.

John dropped down onto the chair, and sank into the cushions. Sherlock knelt before him. Sherlock had winced once as he sat back on his heels, then lowered his head and closed his eyes, his erection lost after he had been forced across the room.

John lifted Sherlock’s chin and didn’t ask for more. He wanted a moment just to observe him, to feel the smooth line of his jaw, to trace his thumb across Sherlock’s lips. He doubted that he would be able to remain so still and let Sherlock hold him this way. He would’ve pulled away by now, uncomfortable with the scrutiny.

He forced himself to push again.

“One,” John said. He tapped Sherlock’s cheek and Sherlock opened his eyes as if waking from a dream.

“Two,” John tucked an errant curl behind Sherlock’s ear. He kept his voice soft. “Do you want to know why I’m counting?”

He got to four before Sherlock nodded.

“Do you see the cane I left way over there?” John pointed to the shadows on the far side of the room and Sherlock craned his neck to see. “If you don’t crawl over there and fetch it for me by the count of ten, I’m going to see how many blows to your backside I can get in before you make it back here. Five.”

John made it to eight before Sherlock decided to move.

Sherlock shuffled forward on his knees, struggling not to pitch chest forward. He was nowhere near the chair by the time John reached ten.

John stood, the countdown long over, the paddle gripped in his hand.

“Come on, Sherlock. That’s more like a Sunday stroll.” John slowed his pace and allowed Sherlock to reach the goal before he closed the gap. Sherlock knelt by the wooden chair, staring down at the cane.

”You’re only halfway there. Do you need my help?”

Sherlock shook his head. He grasped the centre of the cane between his teeth and sat back slowly.

“Are you offering that to me?” John pointed across the room. “Put it in the chair over there.” He brought the paddle down twice and Sherlock bit down and picked up the pace.

John stayed by Sherlock’s side, driving him forward, landing sharp smacks each time Sherlock managed to find his balance and focus. Sherlock weaved an erratic path across the room trying in vain to avoid the paddle. He staggered forward and gasped and the cane slipped from his teeth and clattered to the floor.

“Pick it up,” John said. He crouched down by Sherlock’s side and gripped him by the hair and guided his head to the floor.

Sherlock took the cane between his teeth, and tried to rise, but John held him in place.

John traced his hand down Sherlock’s back then followed the curve of his arse, sending a shudder through Sherlock’s body.

“We’ve been pushing and pulling against each other all night.” John buried his hand into Sherlock’s hair. It seemed to be the place where his hand came to rest each time, lost in the dark curls. “But if I’m going to use the cane on you, you can’t fight me. Either you want it, or you don’t.”

John took the cane from between Sherlock’s teeth, and removed the cuffs from his wrists.

“Do you still want this?” John asked, he dragged his nails across Sherlock’s scalp, feeling the bone below. "Because it's alright if you don't."

Sherlock sat up slowly and looked down at the cane and then at John. After a time, he nodded.

John helped Sherlock to his feet and led him to the long windows. In the darkened room, they were no more than shadows in the glass. He found it easier to look to the London skyline than to look at Sherlock unbound at his side.

“Hands against the frame,” John said. He held his hand against the small of Sherlock’s back to steady him. “Legs together, not a sound. I need you to stay very still for me.”

Sherlock gripped the window frame, the ID tags still trapped beneath his hand. He raised his head and exhaled slowly and stared out into the night.

John tested where the first strike would land, guiding the cane slowly into place, getting used to the weight of this new implement. He still didn’t feel at ease with the cane in his hand and the power that he wielded. He aimed just above the underside of Sherlock’s buttocks, thankful that the previous flogging had left bright red strip of a target.

“I’ll start slow. We stop when you want.”  He moved back a step, and aligned the cane once more. “Are you ready?”

Sherlock nodded.

The first strike landed true. John controlled the cane, keeping his swing short and quick, and letting the wood settle where it landed. Sherlock moaned softly with the impact, buttocks clenching, hips shrinking away from the blow. John gave Sherlock time, listening for the exhale, waiting for the muscles of Sherlock’s back to relax and for him to assume the position once more.

John counted aloud, trying to bring the cane down in the same area, pausing as Sherlock froze and squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t know if the long pauses in-between were more cruel, drawing the punishment out. But pain had to be processed, so he allowed Sherlock the time.

On the eighth blow, he broke the skin and fractured his heart. He stopped.

“That's enough,” John said. He set the cane down and closed his trembling hand into a fist. “No more.”

He examined the welts, eight raised and red lines, the skin hot to the touch. He wiped away what was left of the tears that Sherlock had shed in silence.

 

* * *

 

John dropped down into the chair and leaned back into the cushions. He relaxed all at once, not realising how tightly he’d been holding himself until he let go.

“Go fetch the chair,” John said. “I want you to sit for me.”

It took a few moments for Sherlock to register the command, then he nodded and moved slowly across the space, like someone in a dream. He dragged the chair back and set it before John then sat down slowly, groaning as his arse made contact with the unyielding wood. He drew his knees together and lowered his head until his chin met his chest.

“I've asked a lot of you tonight,” John said, he sat forward and their knees touched. “In fifteen minutes, I'll end it, all of this will be over. But for these last fifteen minutes, I want you to try something. Do you think you could do that?”

Sherlock raised his head.

“I want you to be perfect for me,” John said.

“What does that mean?” Sherlock asked, his voice low and soft.

“You can decide.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, and John wondered what he would make of the request. He wasn't even sure what he was asking for. Perhaps he just wanted to see what being perfect would mean to Sherlock in this moment.

Sherlock raised his chin and sat up tall in the chair. He cast his gaze onto the floor.

"Is this..?" Sherlock faltered and closed his eyes. "I don't know what I should do..."

John reached forward and traced the line of Sherlock's cheek. "It's alright. I'll show you."

John stood and closed the space between them. He moved behind Sherlock and set his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. “No, this is very good. Back even straighter… like this.”

He tipped Sherlock’s head back until he created the perfect line that stretched from the tip of Sherlock’s chin to the centre of his chest.

“Hands clasped behind your head. Look to the ceiling. Yes, open your eyes.”

John made the corrections, pressing his hand against Sherlock’s abdominal muscles until he drew them tight. He set his palm between Sherlock’s shoulder blades and Sherlock lifted his upper back and elongated his neck. He eased Sherlock’s knees apart.

John continued to make adjustments, drawn to the details of Sherlock, mesmerised by the warm skin beneath his fingers and the way Sherlock remade himself with each alteration. Sherlock flowed through each change, now seemingly as lost in this process as John was.

By the time John finished, Sherlock trembled with the effort to hold the shape. For the final piece John picked up the cane and placed it between Sherlock’s teeth. He returned to his chair.

“Perfect. Now don’t break.”

After a few minutes Sherlock began to work through a series of tiny self-corrections, adjusting then struggling to remain still when he recreated the form again. He held still for one minute, and then another, and then he growled and came apart. He lifted his arse from the chair, twisting out of position.

Sherlock calmed, and reset, and rebuilt the house of cards that his body had become into the position John asked of him. He closed his eyes tight then opened them wide as if to clear his head and the sudden movement unsettled the tears that had gathered and sent them spilling down the sides of his face.

In that moment, John wanted to trade places with Sherlock, to be the one overwhelmed and undone, shuddering and vulnerable. He wanted his arms bound and useless, his mouth sore from the gag. He wanted to be open and at the mercy of Sherlock. He missed it.

Sherlock fixed himself again, lifting his ribcage and arching his upper back, staring up at the dark.

This sculpture of muscle and skin and bone would last as long as Sherlock could. No longer. John sat in silence, waiting for the fifteen minutes to count down and for Sherlock to stand up and be done with all of this. To get up and walk away. But he didn’t.

John waited, wanting to tell Sherlock enough now, that this was more than enough, more than he expected, but he had asked Sherlock not to break, and Sherlock would not.

When an hour had passed, Sherlock’s eyes slipped closed, his body trembling, reconstructing each time his form faltered and John finally took Sherlock in his arms and pulled him onto his lap.

Sherlock’s long legs draped over the cushioned arm rest, his head resting against John’s shoulder, his knees battered and beautiful. When John demanded his mouth, Sherlock leaned forward and offered it to him.


	6. Chapter 6

John had always been drawn to Sherlock’s fingers and hipbones, to the nape of his neck, and to his thick dark curls, and now he was enamoured by Sherlock’s wrists. Until tonight, he'd never had a reason to hold Sherlock this way, to wrap his hand around delicate bones and to lead him from one place to the next. Until tonight, Sherlock had never allowed himself to be led.

John felt at ease the moment he stepped into the bedroom; the warmth of the soft light guiding them back into reality. Sherlock lingered in the doorway, half in the shadows, a portrait of fair skin and reddening welts, the scent of sweat and sex thick on him. Dressed only in bruised knees and leather boots, the defiance he wielded like a shield had long faded into something akin now to exhaustion. The dog tags dangled from his fingers. He had never let them go.

“It’s alright,” John said. “I’ve got you.”

He led Sherlock over the threshold and helped him to the bed. Sherlock crawled to the centre and collapsed face down onto the pillows.

He checked Sherlock’s wrists for bruises, and touched the reddened corners of Sherlock’s mouth where the bit had dug in. They would fade soon. Sherlock remained quiet and pliant while John examined all of the places where he had left his mark.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” John stroked Sherlock’s hair for the first time since they had ended the scene, and he waited to see if Sherlock would tell him to stop. “Was it too much?”

“I didn’t drop them,” Sherlock mumbled against the pillow, he turned his face to the side and cracked open a blue eye.

“You can let go of them now,” John said.

Sherlock kept them in his hand.

“Will you be alright if I leave you alone for a second? I need to get a few things to help with these.” John brushed his fingers across the red lines that he had left on Sherlock’s arse.

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes.

John went back down into the kitchen and gathered his supplies. Defaulting to medic mode felt like slipping into his skin again. After a night of uncertainty, in this role he could breathe.

He returned to the sound of a bath being drawn and an empty bed.

Sherlock sat in the deep bath, hugging one knee against his chest, head hung low, boots still on, half-closed eyes focused somewhere far away. The clear water rose like the tide over his skin.

“What are you doing?” John set his scavenged haul in the sink and knelt beside Sherlock.

“Taking a bath.”

“You shouldn’t be in there. The heat is just going to make everything hurt more. You need the opposite of this, you need ice.”

“After.” Sherlock scratched at his skin. “You can fix me after.”

“Christ…” John sighed and tested the water and turned up the cold. “A cool one then, and drink this.” He tapped the bottle against Sherlock’s fingers until Sherlock relented and opened his hand.

Sherlock drank the bottle in one long pull, trails of water sliding down the sides of his face and mixing with the bath. He dropped the empty bottle into the tub.

“Another?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head and closed his eyes. John dipped a flannel in the bath and searched for an open space on Sherlock’s body. He dragged the soaked cloth across Sherlock’s knee.

“If you’re not going to get out... Could I, get in there with you?”

“This is a large bath.”

Sherlock seemed small in the bath; even if he stretched out there would still be space enough for two more. John stepped out of his shoes and undressed and climbed in. The water lapped around his calves as he tried to sort out logistics. He settled down opposite Sherlock and drew his knees to his chest. The running water splashed against his back. Sherlock wore his id tags around his neck.

John crawled across the giant bath, churning up the shallow waters, manoeuvring himself until he settled down behind Sherlock. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder. John said nothing at all.

Sherlock dropped his head back onto John’s shoulder and they stayed still for a while, almost floating, breathing in time as the water rose around them.

“You can keep those if you want,” John said, when the water had met the edge. Sherlock reached out and turned off the tap and John drew his fingers down Sherlock's spine. “If we were to do this again, perhaps you could use them…”

“I don’t think so." Sherlock leaned against him once more with a sigh. “I’d rather be the one to do these things to you.”

John stayed quiet. He had been relieved when the scene had ended. The weight of doing it right, of keeping Sherlock safe while putting him into peril, and trying to hurt him so precisely as to not hurt him. Those parts he wouldn’t miss.

Touching Sherlock though, moving his body, holding him and not being pushed away. Those allowances, he feared, would fade with the night and be gone by the new day.

“Can I ask you something?” It was easier, staring out past Sherlock’s shoulder, not having to look him in the eye. The bath sat in an alcove, beneath a wide window and John looked out at the rooftops across the quiet street and his heart began to quicken.

“Outside of all of this. I’m not sure how to be with you. What we do to each other is so… intense and intimate. But when we're not… when we’re outside of this space, I don’t even know if it’s alright to just touch you, or kiss you sometimes.”

Sherlock remained silent after the question, and John regretted putting the words out there, because it might be better not knowing where he stood. He closed his eyes and dropped his head against the edge of the bath.

“John.” Sherlock stood up with a soft groan and wandered wet and dripping, into the bedroom. “Come to bed. Bring the ice with you.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock sprawled on his stomach, eyes closed, face shifting into a frown as John moved the ice from one bruise to the next. John held the icepack on the darkest marks, the lines where blows had come down too close together and broken the skin. He frowned at the harsh line; the sign of his inexperience would remain for a while.

Despite Sherlock’s insistence that the space would be taken care of when they left, John put everything back in its place. He set Sherlock’s Doc Martens beside the bed. He had ended up cutting the wet, knotted laces with the blunt-edged shears he had brought, relieved that their only use had been to cut Sherlock out of his boots.

He tried to erase the signs that they had been there. He gathered up soiled flannels, and discarded clothes, and the gear they never got to. Another time, and for him to endure perhaps, but not for Sherlock. He wanted so desperately to rewind time, to go back to where he found Sherlock in the bath, the water still too hot and climbing past Sherlock’s ankles. _Thank you_ , he would have said. That would have been the end of it.

“I don’t know if I can give you what you need, but I'll give you what I have,” Sherlock said, after John had packed everything away and turned off the lights, and settled beneath the sheets. “You would have to decide if that’s enough.”

Sherlock rolled onto his side and faced John, the dog tags tucked behind his neck. “The pleasure for me is in touching you, not in being touched. I do crave it, sometimes… your hands on me. But, not as often and not as intensely as I know you might want.”

“Was tonight too much, then?" John asked. "You never dropped the tags.”

“I didn’t want to.”

John reached out and straightened the chain. He ran his fingers across the surface, and along the edge of the tags. The metal still warm from the bath and from Sherlock’s skin.

“You don’t have to give them to me," Sherlock said.

“Would you keep them if I asked?”

Sherlock nodded.

John raised the tags to his lips and kissed them in place of Sherlock’s mouth, not wanting to take too much, after everything they had done that night, now that he understood.

"I would have stayed like that...  When you told me not to break. I would've held still for as long as you asked me to. To show you that I could be something other than... difficult. How I always am."

“I know,” John said. He closed his eyes, the past few days finally catching up with him. Sherlock’s hand pulled gently through his hair, and John relaxed and began to drift, trying to hold on to the moment.

“John?”

Sherlock’s hand slipped down to the nape of his neck. John opened his eyes once more as Sherlock’s lips brushed against his own.

“Sometimes I do want to be touched.”

 

 

(artwork inspired by Switch by the brilliant [x0chipilli](http://x0chipilli-art.tumblr.com/).) 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the very kind people who helped me with this beast: Thank you [dashcommaslash](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dashcommaslash) for jumping on at the last minute to proofread (all mistakes you might see were re-added by me...). Thank you to  
> [x0chipilli](http://archiveofourown.org/users/x0chipilli) for ranting at me on John's behalf and for pretty pretty art! Thank you [lady_t_220](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_T_220) who for reasons unknown to me has continued to stick with and beta this series. AND Thank you to the wonderful [Anjali_Didier](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anjali_didier) who has put up with this thing in its entirety, from brainstorming to editing and allowed me to rant and rave and kept pulling me off the crazytrain...(again and again...) *hugs*
> 
> This story was inspired so very long ago by this prompt on the kink meme: [kink negotiation](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/17487.html?thread=109475151#t109475151). I've been wanting to write this since 3/31/2012, so I'm happy it has finally found a place in the series. Thank you to whoever placed it there. Sorry it took me so long to fill it.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Please leave a comment if the mood takes you!


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